


The Pain of Loss

by GloriousBlackout



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriousBlackout/pseuds/GloriousBlackout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took another one of Moriarty's games for Sherlock to finally be reunited with John. But as the detective looked into his best friends eyes, he knew that he'd hurt the doctor more than he'd ever realised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pain of Loss

When Sherlock was finally roused from his blissful unconsciousness to a state where pain and nausea took over, there were two things that made themselves painfully clear. One: he didn't want to be here. A tight knotted rope bound his hands behind his back painfully, digging into his wrists until he was certain that skin had been shed. The foul stench of damp assaulted his senses, a strangely familiar smell but hardly a welcome one. Not that he could rely on his remaining senses; his vision swirled with a sickening mixture of greys and browns and any sound that reached his ears may as well have been playing out of a broken record. And he was cold. Very cold. Whether or not that was a result of the drug that had rendered him unconscious for what he guessed had been around three hours or whether the room really was this icy he didn't know. Nor did he care because all that he was truly certain of as he lay slumped against a corner, muscles aching and head swirling, he knew that he would rather be anywhere than here. Wherever 'here' was.

And two: standing before him was the one man he had hoped he'd never have to lay eyes on again. Three years it had taken him to ridicule the very name of this man, and yet while he stood before him, grinning gleefully down at his prey, Sherlock knew that he should never have let himself feel safe. After all, Moriarty couldn't have killed himself. He wasn't that kind.

The consulting criminal looked as immaculate as he always did, wearing his trademark Westwood suit with his form half bathed in shadows from the limited light of the room. He didn't seem to have aged a day, he was frozen with the same delighted expression that had been on his face as he'd supposedly died and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if the drug was still working in his head. That didn't seem to be the case however, as the still form of the man finally shifted, edging closer to Sherlock so that he was looming over him possessively. "Wakey wakey! Enjoy your rest?"

Sherlock mumbled in response and frowned as the clever remark he'd prepared refused to come forth. He struggled against his tight bonds but it quickly became clear that any movements resulted in protesting muscles and a flood of nausea rushing to his head. He groaned before slouching back against the wall, settling for sending a death glare in Moriarty's direction instead. He must look pathetic lying here, tied up and vulnerable with no strength to fight back, but he'd be damned if he allowed himself to be defeated. Not yet. "What...Where..."

Moriarty smiled before pacing around the room, stroking the peeling wallpaper with the tips of his fingers and looking at the dust that gathered under his nails in distaste. "I apologise for the state of you, Sherlock. I'm afraid Sebastian-dear was rather more brutal with you than I'd intended him to be." He waved a hand as if dismissing the apology. It was evidently something he'd wanted out of the way. After all, he had a greater game in play. He looked back to the detective, enjoying the other man's helplessness for a moment. Moriarty had reduced him to this with the aid of a simple drug and in a few minutes he'd have dragged Sherlock even deeper into an inescapable pit. It was both wonderfully entertaining and strangely saddening. "You don't recognise this place? I'm surprised Sherlock. Do you remember Carl Power's trainers?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes before a silent 'oh' formed on his lips. The peeling wallpaper and the familiar smell of damp. The basement flat. Hardly exciting but the fact that he was back here, in this very building that contained many memories within it's walls, was like a punch to the gut. It had been a long time. He wanted to ask why, but by the expression that was barely hidden behind Moriarty's eyes and the fact that the consulting criminal was practically trembling with anticipation told him that he was going to find out whether he wanted to or not. He watched as Moriarty slowly wandered – almost gracefully despite the unpleasantness of the room that surrounded him - over to a curled up figure on the ground, one Sherlock hadn't even registered until now. The man stirred as Moriarty knelt by his side, flinching as the consulting criminal lay a careful hand on his shoulder before taking his arm and pulling a syringe from his pocket. "Hello there Johnny. Finally awake?"

Sherlock felt his blood run cold at the mention of his old friend. "Don't touch him!" The words managed to sound strong despite the after-effects of the drugs that still flowed though his system, and he struggled against his bonds once again despite the fact that his movements were sluggish and had no effect on the skilfully tied knots. He quickly scanned his friend as best he could with his distorted vision. Purple bruises had already begun to form on his arms and around one eye, the area of which had swollen and was now leaking tears, but other than that he seemed to be in one piece at least. Sherlock thanked any being that had remained by his side over the years that John was still breathing, still attempting to fight back. Luck wasn't on his side for long though.

Moriarty had deliberately obscured Sherlock from John's line of vision and ignored the doctor's weak attempts to fight back, shushing him as his limbs fell limply by his side in defeat. Sherlock could only watch as the syringe slipped slowly into John's skin, injecting a clear liquid into his veins and causing John's eyes to widen as he realised what Moriarty was doing. "What...what is that?" The doctor writhed as the needle was finally pulled free from his arm and Moriarty threw it onto the floor, rising to his feet in order to allow his game to commence. "Just a mild hallucinogenic." He cast Sherlock a backwards glance, flashing him a knowing smile before looking down at John again, waiting for the drug to take effect.

"John..." Sherlock slowly dragged his body into a sitting position, feeling his breathing grow laboured with the effort required. He wanted to end this, he wanted to launch himself at Moriarty and stop him from interfering with his life once and for all. But he couldn't. He was too weak and while John remained in danger Sherlock knew that he'd do anything to keep him safe, even if it meant surrendering to Moriarty's games. He could take anything that the consulting criminal threw at him. The only problem was, he wasn't sure John could. "John it's me. You'll be all right. It's all right." He knew he could hardly sound convincing but it was the best he could do. He could hardly comfort his best friend, as much as he'd like to. "Let him go. Moriarty, please."

Moriarty didn't reply, instead he remained fixated on John as if he were oblivious to the detective's words. John hadn't missed it though. His eyes had focused on the detective and widened, his face frozen in a mixture of shock, grief and unmistakable pain. Sherlock felt an unfamiliar feeling twist in his gut but he ignored it. It had been inevitable that his 'death' had hurt John. He should have been prepared for his best friend's grief. What he wasn't prepared for was the choked words that managed to escape John's lips, a sob threatening to break free from the other man's throat. "Sh...Sherlock?"

Moriarty raised an eyebrow and instantly wore a confused mask, turning his head to look over in the direction of Sherlock but keeping his eyes distant, unseeing. "Oh dear. It appears that the drug is working. There's nobody there Johnny."

Sherlock glared up at Moriarty, throwing all of the hate and disgust he could possibly conjure up in a single expression before returning his attention to John. He was more important. He would always be more important. "John, it's me. Don't listen to him, I'm really here. Please believe me John!" He didn't care that he was playing into Moriarty's hands by doing this. He had to get John to believe him.

John looked frantically from Sherlock to Moriarty, shaking his head as he tried to take everything in. "No... no he's dead. Sherlock's dead..." He shrank back slightly, dragging himself away from the figure in the corner but unable to tear his eyes away. Moriarty once again raised an eyebrow, almost too convincing as the sane one in the room. This was one time where Sherlock despised his acting skills. "Johnny, Sherlock-dear is dead, remember? He fell from the hospital and cracked his head open, such a shame..." He couldn't help the smile that graced his lips then as he resisted the urge to throw Sherlock another mocking glance. "He's gone Johnny. He isn't real."

Sherlock slumped back against the wall uselessly, feeling an unfamiliar burning sensation behind his eyes. He would do anything to take away the fear from John's eyes. Anything. "John, I know this is hard. And I know you're scared. But please, you have to believe me. I'm alive John. And I'm going to help you, I promise."

Moriarty tutted, looking down at John with an almost hungry expression. "Three years and you're still chasing a dead man. The drug proves it. He's still in your mind." He shook his head almost sadly before reaching into his suit and pulling a glinting knife free. "How pathetic of you. Still wanting to believe he's real." He seemed to be getting through to the doctor, who was now crying and mumbling incoherent words, hugging his knees close to his chest. "You can't be... I saw you die..."

"Bastard." Sherlock muttered under his breath. He needed to force the tears down, keep his voice steady. Stay on top of things. His chest ached, but he still tried to force any and all emotion out of his system, trying to prove he wasn't shaken by this new 'game'. He couldn't give Moriarty any more entertainment than he'd already provided. So he didn't address John again. He wanted to, desperately so, but he refused to. It was only upsetting his friend and he'd done enough of that to last him a lifetime.

Moriarty ignored his quiet dig, still keeping up the pretence that Sherlock was a figment of John's imagination. Sherlock was being rather entertaining though, but it was time to start the next stage. John was being wonderful as the man in distress. It was time to take advantage of that. "Of course there is one way you could get rid of a demon from your head Johnny." John looked up with tear-streaked eyes, trying to ignore the vision in the corner that wouldn't go away. Moriarty gave him a warm smile before looking down at the knife. "You could kill it. That would prove he isn't real."

"No, no, no..." Sherlock choked as Moriarty became immediately more significant. Of course. It made sense now, in a twisted way. He couldn't ignore John now. He didn't care that his voice had become almost pleading, he needed John to listen to him and understand him. "John! Don't... please. Listen to me, I know you think I'm a figment of your imagination, but I'm not. I promise you I'm not! Don't listen to Moriarty, he's tricking you. He has been all this time, please..."

"Three years Johnny. Three years you've suffered with this. You could make it disappear. Just like that!" He clicked his fingers to illustrate his point and smiled as John looked at Sherlock with a fearful expression, not sure whether to run up and hug him or to be terrified by him. Sherlock was dead, and yet he'd always haunted John in the form of dreams or memories. And now this. "You want the pain to end Johnny boy. So end it." Moriarty's voice dropped to a delighted hiss as John accepted the knife from his hands and looked down at it uncertainly. "Destroy him."

"No, John, don't end it. Don't run from it. You didn't run all these years, there's no reason you should run from it now, John," he pleaded. "I-I'll be back soon, John. I'll tell you how I survived." He couldn't help the panic in his tone now. Three years had softened him too much but he couldn't bring himself to be cold now. Not when John needed to see sense. He desperately worked at the ropes further, starting to feel his wrists bleed from the friction.

"But you died... I waited for so long and you never came back to me."John mumbled this under his breath, trying not to let Moriarty hear but knowing that he was failing. Three years of grief could just disappear in a heartbeat. It would help if this imaginary Sherlock wasn't so... Sherlock. John rose shakily to his feet, letting himself look down at the man on the ground. Tears still slipped down his cheeks as he realised just how much he'd missed this man, how much his presence here hurt. Because he knew that once this drug wore off, that was it. He'd lose Sherlock all over again. "Sherlock would have said something. He wouldn't have left me alone." He swallowed and nodded, trying to be as defiant as he could manage. "You're not him."

"John..." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else but quickly closed it again, defeated. It was over. There was nothing he could do and nothing he could say to get through to John's drug-addled mind. The doctor's words cut through him like shards of ice and he felt himself slowly break as the pain slid deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. All John's pain, all that anguish. It was all his fault.

Moriarty looked from Sherlock to John, arms folded and leaning casually against the wall. There was nothing to do now but watch. He could see that Sherlock knew he'd lost. And that was such a glorious sight that Moriarty doubted he could contain his excitement for much longer.

John limped towards the detective, not taking his eyes off of him despite the pain from his wounds. He was so Sherlock and yet... not Sherlock. The man before him was too human, too emotional. It was like an echo of the man he'd once known. His mind couldn't even remember him properly. "I don't... I can't..." He knelt beside Sherlock, staring into his grey eyes and wishing that the illusion would fade soon. That it'd all be over and he wouldn't have to do this. "Sherlock, you died. I missed you so much but..." He couldn't continue. Couldn't bring himself to. "I'm sorry, I have to do this."

"Please, John..." Sherlock didn't care that a burning tear had finally escaped his eye and slipped down his face. He was pleading for his life with the man who was meant his best friend, and yet he knew that nothing he could say would change anything. He met John's gaze, expecting to get lost in his eyes as he had done so often a long time ago. Instead what he saw sent a chilling pang slicing through his heart.

There was nothing there. No life lurking behind the once shimmering blue depths of the other man's eyes, a lifeless grey where there should have been blue. Whether this was a result of the drug or whether his grief had destroyed him, Sherlock didn't know. And yet, deep down, he knew it was the latter. This was his fault. He'd given John a reason to be alive all those years ago and then he'd torn it away again and had expected everything to move on. But it couldn't. John had lost his other half and while he could still function, he couldn't live. Not properly, like he should.

Moriarty was right. Sherlock had destroyed him. And the realisation stopped him pleading because right then he would have done anything to make the pain and the guilt disappear. He couldn't have done this. Not to John. And yet he had. "I'm sorry John."

Sherlock could feel the cool blade tear through skin and flesh but the pain that resulted was nothing compared to the dull ache in his chest. The warm liquid that spilled around the knife slipped through his hands and he found himself collapsing forwards and resting his head against John's shoulder. It was strangely comfortable here, head nuzzled in John's neck, and he knew that it didn't matter now. He'd done this, he'd hurt John. And this was his punishment.

John would figure out the truth in a matter of seconds but Sherlock wouldn't live to hear the scream of anguish that ripped from his chest. While his vision blurred and his mind went blank he heard something much more disturbing. The final victorious laugh that Moriarty had been holding back for so long.


End file.
